


Old Barrow Boy, You've Found A New Toy

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s Era Queen (Band), Angry Roger Taylor (Queen), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Band Fic, Best Friends, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dark, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, F/M, Families of Choice, Fashion & Couture, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hugs, Hurt Freddie Mercury, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inspired by Music, M/M, Makeup, Mother Hen Freddie Mercury, No toxic masculinity to be found here, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Platonic Kissing, Platonic Soulmates, Protectiveness, Rog is here for Freddie, Roger Taylor (Queen) Is a Good Friend, Roger is pretty and Freddie can't stop looking at him, Self-Hatred, Smoking, Swearing, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24599284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: Roger asks a question of Freddie and, with the answer, gets more than he bargained for.(Set betweenSheer Heart AttackandA Night at the Opera.)Contains mature themes. Please mind the tags and see the story notes.
Relationships: Brian May & Freddie Mercury, Brian May/Chrissie Mullen, Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, Freddie Mercury/Norman Sheffield, John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Freddie Mercury, John Deacon/Veronica Tetzlaff, Mary Austin/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 32
Kudos: 44
Collections: Freddie Mercury Weekend 2020!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Please mind the rating and tags. I have no certain knowledge of what exactly Norman Sheffield did as Queen's manager to cheat the band, only these facts:  
>  1\. The band noticed that they weren't receiving funds for cars or rooms or drumsticks, and yet their manager seemed to have new things (including a pair of rolls-royces for himself and his brother)  
> 2\. 'Death on Two Legs' from the fifth album is written by Freddie, about Norman Sheffield, a "real motherfucker of a gentleman" and its lyrics are...telling  
> 3\. There was a lawsuit made and settled between Trident recording company and Queen, which occurred as they parted ways around 1975.**

It's the drumsticks that do it.

Getting a record deal supposedly makes life easier, especially for a band who knows they're good but need a bloody chance, and who've been spending nights for upwards of two years recording their own songs in a studio that hasn't signed them. But once they actually ARE signed and things start kicking off, they're going on tour (to Japan and then America, bloody hell) and then they've got a guitarist falling ill so they need to get him well again (fucking Christ, Brian could have died) and now there's an album they've got to get out after re-recording tracks, and everything is going mad - well, it isn't always noticable that money isn't coming in very quickly. This town or that may not have the best cars or rooms available, oh well - they'll find something better next time; or got to be sparing of cars but the manager needs a new one for all the running about he's doing for you lot. As does his brother. Fucking rolls-royces, too. Oh, but do be careful of those drumsticks, mate, because there aren't enough funds to buy more of them. Got a crack right along the centre from stem to stern and oh, yeah, that's his _livelihood_!

And then your lead singer goes by the recording company and stops to see the manager, and a few more funds come through. Manager finds a good hotel or a nice car for them to use, and everything is all right again.

It's the drumsticks, though. Roger had blown his top, said it's all good and well if you MADE your own guitar, Brian, but I don't know how to bloody whittle a damn stick! And Fred had bit his lower lip with those teeth he always tried to hide, and walked out of rehearsal determined, like he was certain he could fix that.

But it's a day later, and Roger is pretty fucking certain new drumsticks shouldn't make Fred look like he's gone the rounds with a handsy wind machine. His hair looks mussed, his clothes slip and he seems so tired. He's moving as if in pain, walks as though he's pulled a muscle, even as they haven't been onstage. 

They're beautiful, too, the drumsticks; his hands pass over as the wood gleams against his white wristbands; there's a shine to the lacquer that is especially beautiful, and they're the perfect heft and length. Roger whistles as he looks at them, and his bright eyes catch Freddie's as he whispers "Gorgeous, fuckin' hell," and there is a sigh of relief from the singer. A heavy breath that causes his lips to tremble, and it's more than just a regular bit of gladness, Roger can tell, because that's what he gets from Brian and John, a clap on the back and a "thank goodness we can play again". And Freddie tries to smile, he says he's so happy, darling, but something slips in those lovely expressive mahogany eyes and Roger sees.

The drummer doesn't know what's going on or what Fred might be playing at, but he's got some of his own funds stashed and can get a bottle of vodka somewhere. That as well as some candles and couture and the promise of trying out makeup for next tour this evening after rehearsal is surely tantalising enough to exhort Freddie Mercury to come over, loosen his tongue, spill some secrets.

Least it'll let the drummer know exactly who he's got to thank for his shiny new sticks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers, I was a bit unsure about writing and posting this piece, to be honest. As always my goal is to be respectful of everyone involved in my stories, and I wasn't sure whether or not this crossed a line, but I listened to 'Death on Two Legs' and had a tough weekend, so I need some Roger taking care of Fred. I'm going to be as true as I can to my limited knowledge, so I hope you'll forgive this.
> 
> Roger will take care of his Freddie, I promise
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

_Take then thy pound of flesh._

My heart is pounding through my body, legs and hips and bum, I feel the stripes of discomfort, twinges I can master, surely; no one need see and therefore worry, I'm Freddie fucking Mercury, I'm here to rehearse and write and play and sing my heart out, and no one, nothing can stop -

My hand trembles on the mic at the end, as I hear that 'of course you don't want to stop, you want the money for your band, don't you?' and the necessity of that, yes, the need, yes, we need to grow and get big and oh - 

There's a sharp sound from the microphone as it drops, clunking into its place on the stand, my hand shaking too badly to hold it. I bite my lip and duck my head, my cheeks flame darkly in a way I always wish they wouldn't; I'm such an easy target for a blush, no matter what, and suddenly a cool gentle hand is placing the mic up and a warm arm is wrapped around my back, high clear voice saying "...think that's enough rehearsal for the day, yeah?" And I smell smoke and leather and aftershave, feel a warm softness press against my neck and see the glimmer of gold as Roger, dear strong drummer boy, has leaned into me and says "I've got a mound of makeup and a bottle of booze with our names on it, Fred." He raises his eyebrows at John and Brian, the former beaming all over his face when he says he's got to go home to his Veronica, and dear Bri hemming and hawing about a date night with Chrissie, which Roger whistles at and makes Brian go bright red too. Makes me feel a trifle better as I kiss his cheek and press John's hand, feel Brian's gentle hands wrap around me, after he'd been the one to fix the microphone, and I shiver as he almost touches my tender places but then he's got his long arms round my upper back instead and he's leaning himself against me, whispering that he hopes I get some rest, and that I'm doing alright. Intuitive Brian. I blow him a kiss as he lets go, blinking back moisture that springs to my eyes, and promise to get some sleep. I catch a look he exchanges with Rog, whose arm has not relinquished me, only shifting higher on my back, almost round my shoulders and upper torso, rather than at my waist, for which I thank him inwardly. 

Smile also at sweet Deacy, who squeezes my hand in his. "Tell Ronnie I say hello, and give my best to Chrissie," I say to both of them. Roger cackles something about using protection, and ordinarily I'd be saying something just as pert or laughing right along, but instead my innards turn to ice and I stumble as I step. Instantly Roger's eyes are on me and he's holding me upright. Something softens in his face, that stubborn jaw relaxes, even as his hooded gaze gets sharper, almost. As if he's figuring something out, or is concerned for me.

"Come on, Fred," he says. "Let's getcha back to the flat."

The flat. It's his, the one whereto we're going, we had all decided to move away. Well, out of the shared space, Brian has been living with Chrissie, and I do believe our dearest Deacy is seriously contemplating a life with Veronica. Roger is always up for change, he welcomes whatever takes us up and onward. Me, I hate it. I cannot stomach the sound of emptiness inside my flat, where no one's feet now tread except for mine, as Mary and I have decided not to live together. At least now Queen is travelling more, that's what I tell myself, but really, we're growing apart. Have been for a while now, since she asked me for a child and I... couldn't oblige her. I got a cat. WE got a cat, and I love that, but tonight it's human company I crave.

Roger jangles his keys in his hand at the door to his flat. I hadn't realised what all happened to get us there, been in my head I suppose. Huh, like Brian. I wonder if he feels this foggy too, when he's in his head. I think about how I went there last night... No, this is now, and I'm with Roger, who's leading me into his little space and slinging off his jacket to toss it across the table "Figure we'll get on the couch, put our feet up" and he even shucks off his shirt after kicking off those glorious shoes "It's sweaty anyway, Fred. You want a bathrobe?" His eyes go over my outfit questioningly, and I freeze as I wonder if there's anything to show. My hand automatically flutters up to pull at the collar.

But no, he's just being sweet. "Yes thank you, darling, I could put my feet up. And certainly use a robe." I flick my fingers and spin around, and he smiles, perfect teeth flashing as does his golden hair, and the soft paleness of his warm skin, and I note his pert nipples with no marks or the stings - no, stop, deep breaths. I shut my eyes, suck in air through my nose, and I feel those warm hands, the roughness of callouses on my back, lifting my shirt. I flinch and almost move away, but realise Roger is behind me, wrapping his soft cloth robe round, and taking my silk shirt to hang it so it doesn't wrinkle - or spot, because surely we run the risk of spilling drink on it, as my dear drummer waves me towards the living room and his ridiculously overstuffed couch, a dreadful looking thing that nearly swallows us whole soon as we sit in it. 

Roger comes over with a decanter and two glasses, one a bit chipped, colour not matching - with a bag of crisps and a cigarette that bobs up and down between his teeth where it's clenched. "I'll make us something else," he says, dropping the crisps in my lap and unscrewing the lid of the top shelf vodka he's got. I raise my eyebrows at the extravagance, and he notices. "...Yeah, after I bought this, all else I could get was beans." He bounces on the cushion beside me as he sits down, handing over one cup full and clinks his against it. "Well, another rehearsal finished."

"Cheers, my darling," I say to him, holding my glass up. "To crisps and beans and drumsticks." My mouth twitches and I drain my glass as I cannot quite meet Roger's eyes. I feel his warmth, however, and hear the sound of the cigarette match he lights.

"And to making it big, cheers!" Roger lets out a crow, sucking smoke and waving his cigarette, now in hand. I take a quick look at him as he sips from his own drink, throat pulling with the swallow, and I fight the urge to bury my face in his neck and beg to stay there forever. Instead I shake out both my hands and refill my glass, take a single dainty sip and then in order to keep myself from shaking, or thinking, I gulp another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The italicised words at the beginning of this chapter are from William Shakespeare's play The Merchant of Venice. Thanks to LydianNode for the reference in comment form that reminded me of them
> 
> I was planning to do this whole thing in third person, but Freddie's voice came to me so I included him. Hope the inner voice aspects are working, his thoughts jump around a bit.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 3

I look over at Fred and the way he's already pounding that vodka, and figure I'll have to hurry up and join him, so I stick my cig at the corner of my mouth and take the vodka bottle, swigging some directly from it before passing it to Fred, contents swirling and shining silvery in the moonlight through the window that's pretty much open because I haven't any shades.

He lifts the thing contemplative, and I wait for a snigger or some lively comment, perhaps something like "you're a terrible influence, darling" as per usual, but there's something like sadness in his eyes as he takes the decanter and practically chugs from it, and as I see his eyes close and watch his head tilt back, not only do I see...are those tears? Squeezing out of the corners of his eyes, but I get this feeling that he's drinking so much tonight to forget, well, something. 

And I've never been good at just sitting and waiting to listen if someone wants to talk, not like Brian, who just leans in and looks at you with those eyes of his til you tell him whatever he's waiting to hear because you can't take the staring anymore; or Deaks, who nudges at or giggles with me until he ends up helping me forget whatever I wanted to forget or we have such a good time together that it doesn't matter. I look at Freddie, wonder if he's got it in him to dance or do makeup, and he slowly drops his chin and opens his eyes. Their dark depths stare at me with such an ache within I can't even think about anything other than shifting closer to him. I automatically put my arms around him, pull him to lie with me, head on my chest. He puts the vodka down as I automatically stroke his hair and point-blank ask him "What's wrong, Fred?"

He sniffles, looks up, shakes his head and wipes his eyes as he says "Nothing, Liz my darling. Absolutely - nothing -" his voice breaks then and he's shuddering. Presses his face into my chest and I wrap my arms even tighter around him. 

"It doesn't seem like nothing," I smack my lips a bit, blinking a fuzzy feeling away. I need to be lucid right now. "Y' looked like shit today, Fred. I mean, dunno if anyone else would notice it, but I know you. Something happened." I pause, fumble a bit. Take a drag on my cigarette. I'm not good at being gentle or diplomatic in asking anything. I'm not like Brian. So I say "Just tell me you didn't do something mad last night."

"And what if I did?" His dander is up, temper flaring as he tries to move out of my arms. His face is flushed again, in challenge. Bares those lovely teeth he's usually so keen on hiding. 

I can tell there's something else in his expression besides high-minded fury, though, or I'd tell him to piss off and not say another bloody thing about this. But those sticks - "Look, Freddie, I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life, okay?" I speak gently as I can. "But if I say I need a new pair of drumsticks and you come stumbling in next day like you had a stick shoved up your arse -" he flinches at that, so strongly, but I keep up "Well I'm going to wonder what the fuck you got up to."

There's silence. Freddie is looking down, trembling. He hasn't moved away any more, in fact it seems as if he's frozen. Holding his breath, almost. His lips tremble and move over his teeth and off as if he is moving so not to speak. 

I keep going "And this isn't the first time I've noticed something, 's just the quickest," I tell him. "I mean, if something's going on with Trident, and you're having to, I dunno, participate in an underground boxing ring in order to get some money, supplement our meagre income...," I wave a hand. "Looks like you were in a fight," I clarify to him when he simply looks baffled at my words, a crease forming between his eyebrows. I find that I want to pull him down and smooth that crease away with a kiss, and then I blink and shake my head because that's sentimental and stupid and even though I'm drinking my brain isn't sluggish enough not to register that if Fred was in a fight, there is some bastard I've got to find and pound the piss out of. So "Who was it you fought with? Tell me his name and the wanker will wish he wasn't fucking born next time he even looks at you." I clench my teeth, my jaw and blow the last of my cig out. Its glowing ember catches the light, and something about that arrests Freddie's attention. He sucks in a breath and watches. And then he says something I'm not going to forget but that I can't fucking fathom.

"Are we not like that falling ember, Roger? Burning so bright only to go dark and cold. I know I am," he says, and that hopelessness, the pitiful softness, almost monotone sound of his voice puts me in mind of Brian, with his gloomy ways, but this is also different, too. It's something else, coming from a - I want to say a darker place. It honestly scares the shit out of me.

I clear my throat and get out, my voice cracking "...What exactly d'you mean, Freddie?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie talks to Roger
> 
> Warning for description of non consensual sexual relations below, as well as intense self-loathing described

Roger is running a hand up and down my back as he looks at me, our faces close enough he doesn't need his glasses to see the worthlessness in my eyes. I look at those cigarette embers as they die out in the smoke bowl where Roger crushes his cigarette out by his feet, and my body trembles. I want so badly not to speak, but also need someone to know just how awful this is. How awful I've been, to try and help us but really it's doing nothing and it's useless and I'm - 

"Fred," Roger's eyes are wide now, horrified, even. Oh shit I've said something of that aloud, haven't I? I've got to tell him now. "What happened? What did you have to do?"

Oh, Roger. Still so loyal, thinking this is anything but my fault. I put my hand out and touch his cheek, cup his face and smile. "You're so good, my dear," I speak in a small voice that I try to raise as I continue "You have so much light inside. Keep that, do."

His eyebrows draw together. I can tell he thinks I'm talking as if I'm dying. "Fred -"

"Hush," I say, covering his lips with my fingers. I want to trace those lips, to listen to him speak and laugh and sing more than anything, anything rather than say what he's asked to hear. But he wants to know and I cannot deny him. It's sickening, yet I've got to tell. Especially with those eyes on me. "I've been sleeping with Sheffield," I toss out, baldly, as if it's a well-known fact. Try to keep my face controlled. "He's been keeping our money, and I figured it. I - confronted him," _begged him not to put us out into the cold, we need this. I need this._ I shudder at my intolerable weakness, feeling ill. "...and he said there were things that I could do...," 

I look at Roger as I tell him every time we've gotten something, it's because I went to see Norman. He took me in all kinds of ways, and I let it happen because he said it was the way we'd get our money. We have to earn our earnings, he'd spoken with that predatory smile, like a shark's. Said I would do the earning as he bent me over and pushed my legs -

Roger makes a noise, and I focus back upon his eyes. I'd gone off it seems, to describe to him, and I realise he's looking at my body much more closely now. In shame I realise he's matching my stories with the sight of my skin, and I curl down and roll up, trying to hide. I would leave, if I could find the strength to do it. I'm sure Roger doesn't want to be anywhere near the likes of me, how low and degenerate and abominable -

"I could kill him." Rog has stood up, eyes blazing, fists clenched. "I ought to bloody fucking KILL him for doing that to you, for making you feel so low and dirty and - god, Fred," Roger whirls to face me now, as I've scooted myself to the far side of the sofa. He fists his hands in that glorious golden hair and his teeth are bared and snapping like those of an animal, a lion, as he is, fierce Roger - but then his face crumples and he's kneeling in front of me, voice so gentle and hurt as he reaches out. "Freddie, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. We - we ought to've seen. He NEVER should have been able to get his hands on you!"

"No," I press the heels of my hands against my eyelids, closing my eyes tight, rocking a bit. "No, this is on me, I - I let him."

There's movement, and warmth, and Roger's rough hands are curling round my wrists and his fingers rub circles upon my skin. "This isn't your fault, Freddie," his voice is a growl. "He fucking _used_ you. He's used us all, but you, he - oh, Christ, he blackmailed you into this! He didn't get your real acceptance, you did what you thought - he made you fucking think you had to, and oh, my god." I've opened my eyes and lower my hands now as Roger goes utterly still. The horror in his eyes has reached a zenith so I know this is it, he's going to make me leave, surely it's too much - 

But "Will you let me hold you, Freddie? Please?" I've never heard this sound in Roger's voice. Wrecked, pleading. He holds out his arms to me, and looks as though his whole world is crumbling. But he's asking me if he can hold me, this dear passionate loyal wonderful man. I still feel cold, almost dead, but somehow my heart can still leap.

"Of course," I whisper, and move on my knees into his embrace. He gasps something as he wraps his arms around me and clutches me, burying his face into my hair. 

And then he is gentle, so incredibly gentle, standing and moving to lie on the couch and take me with him, fingers stroking my back and sides and shoulders, and he keeps murmuring things to me whilst pressing tender kisses to my face, my cheeks and forehead. The words I hear rumbling out of his chest most are "I'm here." 

I don't know how long later, I've almost drifted off in the safety of arms I thought I'd never feel around me again, when I hear "...And those drumsticks are going all the way up Sheffield's arse next I see him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to say about this chapter, I only hope in some way I did these two dear friends justice
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	5. Chapter 5

I dunno how long Freddie's awake in my arms, but I just keep on holding him and stroking his hair, and eventually he must drift off. We'd really decimated the vodka, I honestly hadn't realised - and I probably should get up and toss out the bottle and the empty crisp packet Fred looks like he's _folded_ before putting it on the coffee table at some point, ridiculous sod. But his breathing is coming deep and mostly even and when I do shift there's a hitch and a high little sound as his supple hand wraps around my back and holds tight, warm breath ghosting across my nipple as he's practically buried himself in the skin at the centre of my chest, head turned to the side. Not that I've got a problem, we shared a bed so many times when we shared a flat. It's nice, this. And I want to help him besides, do whatever I possibly can to get him out of this mess with Sheffield. Fucking Sheffield. He'd always seemed smarmy, a bit, and would watch us with calculating eyes. Should've seen the way he looked more often at Fred, though, after I do recall something along the lines of a pass at me but I shut it the fuck down. It wasn't anything, really, but enough for me to be fucking certain that we, I should've noticed what Freddie was having to do, what that absolute waste of skin was forcing on him.

Sweet Freddie. I look at him in the moonlight, the planes of his face, those angular cheeks and full lips and how pert he always looks when he's not abashed by his teeth, which aren't even bad, they're interesting, as a bio student and almost a dentist I got bored seeing the basic requisite teeth. Freddie's are like him: bold, striking, unique, and the way they push out his lips over them, making him always look as though he could burst into a smile or one of those wonderful laughs that crinkle his eyes and transform his whole face, it's mesmerising. Except in times like this, tonight he'd looked so broken and defeated and sad that it's breaking my fucking heart. On impulse I pull him up and even closer to me, burying my face in his hair and allowing his head to rest in the crook of my neck. I feel his breath heave out, and maybe the brush of his lips to my skin, but can't be certain as at last my eyes are getting heavy and I'm shuffling off to dreamland too, as it were. 

Last thing I think somewhat coherent is that after we both deal with our hangovers tomorrow, I'm getting with Deacy and Brian and we're going to sort this shit out. We won't let our Freddie be taken advantage of by Sheffield. We can't.

I come to next morning to feel a lovely tracing on my skin, and to feel warm and mostly comfortable, even though I realise I'd conked out asleep on my couch, and the instant I crack my eyes open and the sun hits them my head explodes in pain and I moan, throwing a naked arm across my face. I shouldn't have moved. "Fuck, why..."

"I ask myself that question every day, my dearest," a rich but slightly raspy voice says to me. Freddie. I try to look at him, and shift my eyes down, realising his hands are what provided such a comforting sensation as I woke, he was gently tracing my skin with those fingers. Seems like he's contemplating an art piece, or maybe it's automatic. My lashes flutter and he pulls his hands away, sucking in both cheeks as he inhales and looks apologetic. "Oh, Roger, I'm so sorry, for this, and what I said last night, I -"

I shake my head, clenching my teeth to stop the groan as agony like a spike drives through my head at that movement. Shit. He looks a trifle pale, but not as if he's in pain, for which I thank all the fucking stars that Brian knows even as everything Fred spoke of comes crashing back into my brain. I grab hold of his hand. "No, Fred. Don't you dare say you're sorry for that shite Sheffield did. His arse is fucking fertiliser, d'you hear me? And you haven't got to apologise for anything now either," I deliberately put his hand back against my skin, curling his fingers a little. His breath catches and his eyes are so dark and wide and vulnerable, and I hear myself say, meaning every word of it: "You can touch me however you want." And then I continue because I can't help it: "And I'm not going to do a single thing you're uncomfortable with, okay? Not now, not ever. I'll ask, and you tell me. About everything." I manage to force my eyes open and look into his, trying to explain with my expression and voice if not the words, can't express myself properly as Bri always does, the intellectual bastard - "Got it? We're going to figure this shite out, and get our own from Trident, and if I have to beat Sheffield the length and breadth of England I'll fucking do it. Now," I pull air through my nose and try to control my stomach, as it's flip-flopped just a bit. Tousle Fred's hair and smile at him. "Whaddya say to beans on toast for breakfast?"

He looks at me with his heart in his eyes, and his voice catches. "Oh, that sounds absolutely lovely," he says, and in his tone is so much more, as if it isn't the breakfast, but "As you are," he adds so feelingly. 

I can't help a fond "Oh piss off," as I slowly sit up, and then automatically rub his side and give him a kiss on the head. "Come on then." I stretch as I stand, still squinting mightily in the abominable amount of light, holy shit - and put my hand out to Fred. He takes it after a second and we stand there together, solid and sure with interlaced fingers and hearts. He's my best mate, and I'm going to look after him as he's been trying to look out for me, for us. No more of that though, of him being alone. We're a band, and not just a band, we're fucking family. And no one pulls any shit on one of our own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irascible Roger is made even more sharp by a hangover! He definitely means to put Freddie at ease for any and all sorts of interactions with him here. Physical, emotional, he's going to be there for Fred, whatever he wants and needs. Dear Rog.
> 
> I think this is a good end, what do you think?
> 
> Comments appreciated, and thank you so much for reading <3


End file.
